


A wager with the sky

by girlwithabird42



Series: Haunted by American dreams [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abigail was an underage sex worker, Child Death, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Healing, Idiots in Love, Marital angst, Unplanned Pregnancy, also Abigail/Arthur teeters on not platonic, it's here but not dwelled on, siblings by choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithabird42/pseuds/girlwithabird42
Summary: Abigail Roberts and John Marston stake claims to be proved through the years.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Jack Marston & John Marston, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Series: Haunted by American dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052933
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	1. Killing time on the fringes

At fifteen, Abigail earned the cathouse madam twenty dollars for her virginity.

Since then it’s been half-dollars of the two-dollar charge that goes into Abigail’s pocket. Abigail always makes sure her johns are generous tippers even though they’re unaware she’s lightened their load.

A dirty old man who self-styles ‘Uncle’ catches her pick-pocketing on the street. “I know how you could make more.”

“I ain’t seeing to your needs here nor anywhere else.”

“I was rather thinking you’d like to join my gang, the Van der Linde gang.”

“Alright Uncle Van der Linde.”

He laughs as if what she said was some tremendous joke. Abigail understands when she meets the actual Mr. Van der Linde.

“Welcome to the new America,” he gestures broadly to the encampment. Abigail breathes the fresh air in deep.

Though Miss Grimshaw insists Abigail’s share only comes with honest labor not made on one’s back, Abigail falls into old habits.

Dutch, as he insists on being called, talks a lot of pretty words about Utopia Abigail don’t understand half of. Sitting on his face shuts him up at least. Thankfully most of the men are satisfied with her hand down the front of their trousers.

Abigail’s attention is elsewhere as she and Karen bend over washboards.

“Don’t think because you used to be a working girl you can go through the whole camp,” Karen says territorially.

Abigail laughs, “I ain’t angling for Sean McGuire. Nobody needs their ear talked off _that_ much.”

Karen’s eyes follow Abigail’s gaze to John Marston. He shoots Abigail a grin with a flash of teeth.

Karen lets out a cackle. “At least Sean’s more of a conversationalist.”

Abigail ducks her head and scrubs the laundry harder.

There’s nothing special about John in bed to Abigail’s intense relief. Karen’s wrong though; John’s much more talkative once his needs are seen to. Abigail listens to him talk on much of the same as Dutch only he don’t make her feel stupid.

John speaks about wide open prairies and Abigail starts to think about things she never dreamed.

“You really read all those books?”

John twists his neck to look at her. “Well yeah. Do you want to read them? They’re kind of full of shit.”

Abigail laughs, embarrassed, “Oh no, I can’t read.”

“I could teach you, if you want.”

Abigail’s face goes even hotter. “I think you got more important things to see to, Mr. Marston.”

John’s often away on jobs. When he’s gone, Dutch’s second-in-command is left behind. Arthur Morgan’s the one man in camp Abigail can’t figure, so heavily blanketed in an air of sadness.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to smile?” she propositions softly, the gang more caught up in their rounds of drunken song.

“I’m sure you do have a pretty one, Miss Roberts.”

The girls talked about flattering men faking screams. Abigail could never be bothered as it never earned anyone an extra cent. In Arthur Morgan’s bed, simply because she feels sorry for him, Abigail is caught off-guard and screams.

\----------

John’s been jealous of Arthur for any number of reasons over the years, mostly relating to Dutch trusting him more. Arthur’s always toed the line better so John can’t exactly fault Dutch there.

Never before has John resented Arthur’s good looks as he watches Arthur and Abigail pass each other in the morning, looking like they know something he don’t.

Abigail joins John at the table. “What’s got you sour?”

“Pearson’s a terrible cook,” John mumbles, staring into his stew.

“He’s a damn sight better than me, so count your blessings,” Abigail declares with a grin.

She’s _funny_. John never thought he’d like that in a girl.

It’s John, Bill, and Hosea ‘round the campfire in the evening. Bill’s in his cups and John’s getting there.

“Morgan’s too old and grim for her,” John says to himself.

Bill hiccups in response.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, John, and you don’t have half Arthur’s reasons,” Hosea points out.

John’s stomach curdles. He knows better than most, but he’s still talking to the wrong people. While he can get Dutch’s ear, Arthur was always Hosea’s favorite, never any point in fighting that.

Still Hosea’s words rattle around John’s head and he has almost no focus when they rob a station. He nearly misses a customer running for the door, only catching them in nick of time.

Abigail goes for John’s trousers when he returns. “If you’re too tired for a suck, I can go.”

That makes John near wretched. He’s gotta do better. “No. Stay.”

He’s only half out of his union suit when her drawers drop to the ground. John’s not sure what comes over him, but as he kisses the hollow of Abigail’s throat, he lightly grazes her with teeth, dragging down her bare shoulder, her breasts.

Abigail’s nails bite hard into his back and the moan she makes resonates so deep in John’s bones he explodes on the spot, no satisfaction of being buried in her.

“Sorry,” he mutters, too afraid to meet her eye. When he manages, Abigail looks dazed against the bedroll.

Her voice is thick. “We ought to clean up.”

“Right.”

Abigail slips her chemise back over her head and out the tent on unsteady legs, John notices. He peels off the soiled union suit, cursing himself for having nothing clean.

He’s still naked when Abigail returns, flinging a wash towel at him. It’s mundane, but John can’t help but stare as she absently wipes the inside of her legs.

She’s always returned to the girls’ tent after their fucks and John doesn’t doubt he deserves to be alone for the night’s performance, but Abigail blows out the lantern and crawls back onto the bedroll with him.

In the dark, Abigail places the faintest kiss to his lips; John wonders if he imagined it. She throws her arm across his chest; he encircles her wrist with his hand, unable to fall asleep. It is the most chaste thing they’ve ever done and John reckons the most intimate.

Abigail’s back the next night and the one after that; no one’s tent but his, not even Arthur’s. John couldn’t say what he’s done to deserve her, but he finds the company more than welcome.

\----------

“That’s John Marston’s girl,” they say by way of introduction to the Callander boys.

Whoso list to hunt,” Dutch says in an amused voice. Abigail has no notion of what he’s talking about, but judging by Hosea’s eye roll, nothing worth knowing.

“At least you’re not getting airs above your station,” Grimshaw nods in approval.

For the first time in her eighteen years, Abigail knows security. She has a place with the gang and especially in John’s arms. She’s sure she’s never been happier.

It’s a little thing, but he won’t see her hungry; she says ‘I love you’ when he brings them breakfast. 

Upon realizing what exactly she said out loud, Abigail wonders if it’s too much, if John will think her a silly girl, his interests finally turning elsewhere. Before John, Abigail would have declared it universal fact men’s eyes wander, but he only ever looks at her.

Instead, he grins as he only does for her. “Promise?”

Her heart soars. He loves her too, even if he won’t say.

Abigail and Karen, gussy up to swindle poker players out of their cash.

“How do I look?” Karen asks, hiking her bosom even higher in her corset.

“You’re liable to fall out.”

“What’s life without a little risk?”

Abigail hides their ill-gotten gains down the front of her blouse. When she finds John outside the saloon, he smells of cigars and sweat, tastes of whiskey.

“John stop, that’s where our money is,” she swats his hand away from her blouse buttons.

“I don’t care.”

“You will when you have to explain to Dutch where three hundred dollars went. There’s more of me when we get back.”

John smirks, “Promise?”

Abigail rolls her eyes and kisses him anyway.

She must have drunk too much. Abigail’s head buzzes in the morning, nursing her coffee to only feel moderately better.

“This is why I ain’t drinking with you no more,” she laments to Karen. Karen shrugs, emptying her flask into her mug.

Except Abigail feels the same kind of awful the next morning, no liquor required.

“I gotta make up a compress or something,” she mutters weakly before sitting down, vision going briefly dark. When her sight comes to, Grimshaw has a cold towel against Abigail’s forehead.

“When’s the last time you bled, girl?”

“I ain’t ever been regular –”

“Answer the question.”

Abigail swallows, trying to recall, “A couple of months.”

Grimshaw nods, then turns to walk towards the medicine wagon. Abigail can’t miss the older woman muttering to herself. “Retired whore don’t have the sense to realize she’s knocked up, her and Marston at it like rabbits for weeks.”

Abigail blinks, not believing what she’s hearing ‘til Grimshaw presses a familiar bottle into Abigail’s hand.

Kinder and far too understanding, “It goes down okay with coffee. Save yourself the grief, my dear.”

Abigail goes through the motions with her chores, the bottle bumping against her thigh in her skirt pocket. She ought to heed Grimshaw’s advice. A baby’s more trouble than they’re worth. She just never figured she’d have one, much less the baby of the man she loves.

There’s security and safety here. She can’t risk that.

There’s security and safety here. John loves her, in his fashion. He won’t see her hurt.

Abigail pitches the bottle into the horse manure.

She startles on the realization she’s not alone. Arthur’s there, arms full of hay bale. They stare at one another for a moment before Abigail hurries along, neither of them having said a word.

\----------

Though Abigail’s still beside him, John finds her a cold bed companion, shrugging him off when he slips her chemise off her shoulder.

“I’m awful tired, John.”

He waits a few days before finally confronting her. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, John.”

“Then please tell me what the hell is going on, because you’re keeping me in the dark about _something_.”

“I’m pregnant.”

John might have been hit by a runaway train for all he knows. “You certain?”

“That it’s yours?” Abigail says with an edge that makes John regret his choice of words.

“Certain that you’re pregnant.”

Wordlessly, Abigail undoes the front of her corset and when her chemise comes off, there’s no mistaking the slight swell of her belly. John’s an idiot. Girl’s bosoms don’t get fuller just ‘cause a fellow’s sweet on her.

“You’re gonna be a father, John Marston.” Abigail’s happiness melts into hesitation. “You ain’t mad, are you?”

_Don’t go stupid over a girl._ This is different.

“No, I ain’t mad. Far from it,” he reassures her as he pulls her close.

Abigail’s breathing is slow and regular as she sleeps in his arms. He’s careful to avoid touching her stomach.

John ain’t mad. He’s scared shitless. Even if he figured he and Abigail could make it a good long run, he never saw children hanging on. He was practically a kid yesterday. Hell, Abigail _is_ still a kid.

John doesn’t get a wink of shut-eye.

Abigail’s still in deep sleep when John slips out half-dressed to find Dutch. Words spilling out in a panic, “Abigail’s knocked up. Don’t kick her out of the gang.”

Dutch puts his hand behind John’s neck, “My dear boy, Abigail’s staying. She was family before and she’s especially family now.”

John downs the brandy in one shot but only nervously spins the cigar in his fingers. Hosea steps in behind him.

“Are you ready to be Grandpa Hosea?” Dutch chuckles.

“I’m very happy for the pair of you.” It’s genuine and that makes it worse.

John doesn’t want to meet either of their eyes. He knows what he’s gotta do next and he’s a coward who’d rather say nothing.

“Thought I was trading off with Javier,” Arthur says, unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth.

John shoves his hands in his pockets. “Abigail’s pregnant.”

Silence. John wonders how long it’s gonna take Arthur to digest the news or if he’ll be left standing here, a fool for all eternity, when Arthur wraps his arms around him and gives him a solid pat on the back.

Arthur doesn’t say a word as he leaves John to patrol duty. The hard part must be over.

He returns to camp mid-afternoon. Abigail’s smile brightens her whole face; John breathes in deep and walks forward to join her.

\----------

“Maybe I oughta have a baby,” Karen muses.

Abigail snorts, not looking up from the baby’s nightshirt she sews from scraps. “I cannot think of a stupider notion.”

“Don’t follow their example, Tilly,” Grimshaw warns the new girl. “Loose women that they are.”

Abigail and Karen roll their eyes in unison.

Abigail’s worry John will turn inattentive as she grows heavier is unfounded. He takes her in his lap when he cannot top her any longer. His gaze tears away from her.

“Where are you at, John?”

“Hmm?”

“Never mind.”

He smiles at least when she rests his hand on her stomach to feel the baby kick. “Yeah, that seems about right.”

Though content with their growing family, everything is becoming quite the hassle. Abigail needs the damn chamber pot again and struggles to get up from her seat.

“Need a hand?” Arthur is steady and unwavering as Abigail anchors herself to him.

“This child’s wearing me out already,” Abigail laughs.

“Well, it’s a Marston.” Arthur says it like a joke that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Abigail smiles, unable to shake her unease as she returns to the privacy of the tent.

“Is something wrong with Arthur?” Abigail asks John.

“Arthur? Not particularly,” John shrugs.

“He’s always so sad. I heard the gossip about his old sweetheart –”

“Mary was a bad business, but it was a long time ago,” he cuts her off.

Abigail knows John’s tone: protective. She’s only heard it on account of herself and had no expectation of it for Arthur, much less about a woman no one speaks well of.

Abigail believes John, even as she knows he can’t say everything. There’s history there she ain’t ever likely to know.

“Alright, John,” she ends the discussion.

\----------

Not that he wants to, but John bristles at being denied entry to his own tent.

“I will let Karen shoot you and that’s a fact,” Grimshaw threatens him.

John’s heard the dying cries of poorly-butchered animals less agonizing than Abigail’s. It’ll fall on deaf ears, but he prays to God he hasn’t killed her.

John drinks hard and fast. “Quit being stingy, Williamson!” he yells, but Dutch snatches the bottle away from him.

“I do not think the lady’d appreciate you drunk as a skunk.”

Grimshaw emerges eventually, wiping her hands on a bloody apron. “They’re both well, despite her addled choice in name.”

“Another John Marston, God help us,” Hosea teases but with a smile John wishes he could manage.

All that really matters is Abigail beaming when John enters. “He’s perfect, John.”

John is eternally grateful no one’s bothered to say the baby looks like him. He has no Earthly cause to doubt Abigail, but the baby in his arms doesn’t look like anything other than a pissed-off beet.

“Call him Jack at least. I’d hate to see him strapped with Junior.”

“Jack. I like that.”

Grimshaw shoos John out again on account of Abigail and the baby needing rest. The powerful urge to drink gone, he simply wanders.

It dawns on him Arthur’s been scarce. Whether by personal design or orders, John finds him out on the edge of camp.

“Dunno if you heard, but it’s a boy. John. Jack. Let him have his own damn name.”

“I’m happy for you, John.” He wishes Arthur didn’t mean it.

There are no cigars but they smoke together in silence and best understanding of the other man.

John puts the butt of his cigarette out with the heel of his boot and marches back to Dutch’s tent. “I want lead on the next stagecoach.”

\----------

If Abigail’s not exhausted from minding Jack, John’s exhausted from taking on more robberies, each more dangerous than the last.

Abigail rocks Jack in her arms, as he will neither feed nor hush. John’s nose is broken.

“You got a death wish?” she hisses at him.

“I am _trying_ to make us some money so you don’t have to work no more.”

Abigail appreciates the sentiment but wishes John’d go about it another way. She says ‘thank you’ all the same, but John’s not paying attention.

“Hey!” he snaps at Mac Callander. “My wife’s not some spectacle to gawp at.”

Abigail pulls her shawl over her bare chest, color rising in her cheeks, though it ain’t from shame.

_Wife._ She likes that more than a former prostitute ought to and could get used to calling John ‘husband’ awful quick. And if Reverend Swanson objects to their nomenclature, that’s his business.

When they’re intimate again, Abigail won’t take her underthings off. “It ain’t so pretty under there no more.”

“Don’t I get to be the judge of that?” When John rolls off her, he grins like the cat got the cream. “See? You’re fine.”

Abigail shoves him, “You are wicked, John Marston. _Fine_.”

John always hesitates when Abigail hands Jack to him. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’m learning too. Please, _try_.”

Despite her husband’s loud protestations, Abigail catches John’s habits when he thinks no one is watching, drawing a toddling Jack into his lap as he skims the paper.

“Is he smart like his daddy and reading already?

John only hums in response.

John asks the most peculiar question as Abigail repairs a shirt. “How confident are you with a gun?”

Frowning, “A rifle might be a bit much but I can figure my way around a pistol.”

“Good. Just making sure you can take care of yourself and Jack.”

Snorting, “I’ve always been capable of that.”

He smiles, a little less serious, “I suppose that’s what made me fall for you.”

It’s a fistful of blanket Abigail grabs in the morning, not the front of John’s union suit. He didn’t say nothing about morning patrol the night before.

Abigail hastily dresses, looking for any sign of him. She’s frantic, wondering if he was stolen by O’Driscolls or lawmen. The nail in the coffin is the absence of his horse at the hitching post.

Abigail has no notion of where her feet are carrying her, walking head first into Hosea.

“Something the matter, child?”

Abigail’s voice wavers, but she can’t cry. Her heart’s too broke. “John’s gone. He didn’t say nothing.”

\----------

The guilty conscience is barely eased by all the money John left for Abigail. He can get by on nearly nothing; she’ll be set ‘til Jack’s big enough and she can work again.

John beats people for the dollars he needs to feed himself, to get just drunk enough to stupefied when he collapses at night.

Saloon girls always cozy up in his lap. None of them remind him of her, thank Christ.

“I got a wife.”

“Ain’t this the point then?”

‘Loyalty’ is the word, though John’s got a piss-poor imitation of it.

He says ‘wife’ like he’s done right by Abigail; a bald-faced lie.

He’s a disappointment of a son, never to be fully relied on by Dutch nor Hosea. Why shouldn’t they favor Arthur? Arthur never made it a competition but John couldn’t harbor more jealousy for the man if he was his flesh-and-blood brother.

John knew his real pa and weren’t better for it. Leaving is the kindest thing he could do for Jack.

Alone in his tent, John forgot how cold the ground was. With some time, maybe he’ll convince himself he prefers it.

\----------

The gang avoids Abigail like the plague, all except Arthur, who becomes her second shadow. She allows it for a while though it truly gets on her last damn nerve.

“Just leave me be, Arthur!” she snaps at him.

He backs off, but Abigail doesn’t miss the furtive glances at her Arthur and Hosea share with each other. _She’s fine, she’ll manage._

It’s easier to corner Hosea. “What was that about?”

“Old men and intentions, Abigail. You needn’t worry; you already have quite enough of those.”

Tilly plays with Jack while Abigail helps Pearson out with the food wagon. “Abigail, come quick!”

She drops everything, frantic at what could be amiss, but Jack’s smiling.

“Ma!” he squeals, giggling and saying it over and over when Abigail picks him up to kiss him on his round cheeks. Abigail’s so taken with Jack’s first word, she doesn’t consider his second.

“Pa,” he says emphatically.

“Pa is far away. Momma is here.”

“Pa,” Jack repeats, throwing his hands in the direction of the stew pot where Arthur’s serving himself dinner.

“No, Jack,” she says so cross tears well up in her son’s eyes. Abigail ponders if she is the worst mother to ever walk the Earth. Certainly she’s given her son no model father.

The water bucket knocks against Abigail’s legs, sure to leave bruises the next day.

“God damn it,” she mutters, paying no mind to the commotion back at camp.

The new girl, Mary-Beth, rushes up to her, pushing the sweaty strands of hair off Abigail’s forehead. “He’s back.”

All she’s wanted, all she’s dreaded for the past year. Abigail wants to tell Mary-Beth off. She ain’t got no business meddling in others’ affairs.

Instead, “How do I look?” No amount of smoothing will get the wrinkles out Abigail’s skirt.

“Lovely.”

“I appreciate the dishonesty,” Abigail says passing the bucket off.

John looks as though he’s slept on his horse – and likely has, what with the mud-caked clothes and dark circles under his eyes.

In her dreams, John runs to her, sweeping her off her feet, laden with apologies before taking her to bed, but this ain’t it.

Abigail’s within her rights to scream, be it in her tent or out here in the open with all to witness. It would be quite the show, her turning him out. _Hell, John looks ready for it._

Except no one else looks as miserable as John. Dutch beams at the return of the lost sheep; even Hosea and Grimshaw approve. The boys welcome back one of their own; Mary-Beth has all her silly romantic ideas Abigail once dared to entertain with John and John alone. They’ve all made up her mind for her. It _will_ be different this time.

Abigail walks up to him, with a light kiss to his sunburned cheek. “Welcome home, John. We missed you so.”

\----------

Forgiveness is more than John deserves and yet he has it in spades. Dutch embraces John, never more the benevolent father. Hosea seems genuinely pleased with him, something John wouldn’t have bet on seeing in his lifetime.

The other men demand regales of John’s exploits over the year. He dresses them up as best he can, like they don’t know it’s a shit life they’re living. They hoot and holler, congratulating him on having a splendid time.

Abigail – at first, John was relieved she took him back. He ain’t sure of much in his life, but he is sure of her; his year was miserable without her. But Abigail’s forgiveness, John finds, festers like a wound. He can never let her know. 

He smiles at her in front of everyone; half-heartedly takes her when she coaxes him up. The last thing they need is another mouth to feed.

John comes in after a robbery brings them home late. Abigail is still awake.

“You’re up?” he rubs his eyes.

“It weren’t no bother, just wanted to see you,” she smiles sleepily. He don’t deserve this act of devotion, but then again, maybe she’s just making sure he’d come back.

Only Arthur sees John for what he is. Any time John senses the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, Arthur’s glaring at him.

John could swear he catches looks between Arthur and Abigail. He’s not stupid; he knows what they did when he was away, before Abigail hitched herself to him. Wouldn’t surprise John in the least if Morgan got comfortable in her again. He burns white hot for thinking it when he’s got Abigail alone. If she had left him, John would have no right to claim she did wrong.

Part of him still hates Arthur for it anyway.

It’s months before Arthur and John say more than a few terse words to each other.

“Jack’s got a birthday coming up.”

_Shit._ “I know.”

“Just making sure you hadn’t forgotten.”

_He had._ “Mind your own goddamn affairs, Morgan! He ain’t your son, he’s mine.”

All the color drains from Arthur’s face. It would have been kinder had John shot Arthur straight in the chest. After that, they maintain a stilted cordiality, neither risking an explosion.

Jack is almost three and there’s so much John missed. The boy is surer on his feet, he talks in full sentences. ‘Momma’ is a declarative, ‘pa’ is more of a question. It’s about what John expects.

The slate John learned to write on is long broken; Jack is presented with a new one and two pencils on his birthday.

John clears his throat, “He’s a mite young, but I was thinking I’d start Jack on his letters.”

“He’d love that, John,” Abigail sighs happily.

Jack frowns in concentration as he forms his shaky letters. He grips the pencil ‘til it snaps.

“You got about as much patience as I did,” John muses.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Blackwater takes months of planning, pouring over stolen mail and blueprints.

“We got a spy in our midst,” Micah Bell growls, taking note of a tiny hand pulling at the tent flap. “See to your kid, Marston.”

“I got rank and I sure as hell don’t take orders from you,” John spits back.

“ _John_ ,” is all Dutch needs to say by way of warning. John huffs and storms out, snatching up Jack in the process.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks curiously, his eyes wide like Abigail’s, making John feel worse.

John ignores him as best he can, searching the camp for a sign of Abigail. “You’re supposed to mind your ma.”

“I know,” Jack says so softly John could have imagined it.

Abigail’s mending with the other girls. Jack wriggles out of John’s grip to be with his mother. “Everything alright?”

“He interrupted.”

Abigail frowns, “He just wanted to spend some time –”

If there were a time and a place, that surely weren’t it. “You want him on the Blackwater job? We might have some pistols that come in his size.”

“Oh now you’re gonna be fresh?”

“Come here, Jackie,” Karen pulls the boy into her arms, giving John and Abigail the chance to step away.

Abigail squares her shoulders and folds her arms, ready for a fight. “Yes, Jack interrupted and he shouldn’t have. I won’t argue there. But why do you gotta be like this? He loves you so much.”

All John’s irritation in the moment melts away, but he still feels queasy. He ain’t got a good answer for Abigail now and fears he never will.

Abigail flinches when John kisses her forehead without another word.


	2. Burn and be forgiven

Hell, as it turns out, is not agonizingly hot, but blisteringly cold. Abigail rubs Jack’s hands between her palms when they turn too white.

So many dead and dying from Blackwater; she won’t count her son as one of them. Jenny was just a kid who life made hard. The Callander boys were a fixture, in the gang near as long as her. It all hurts.

But Abigail cannot stop thinking about John, gone too long, frozen and buried under a snowdrift, in search of security for them. Her heart pounds in terror and it might be the only thing keeping her warm.

Abigail begs and pleads; she’ll fall to her knees if that’s what it’ll take to bring John back to her. Only it don’t come to that and she allows herself to hope when Dutch lets Arthur and Javier ride out. Had it been Bill or Micah, she’d never see John again.

The presence of a widow cuts too near the bone. Every passing second feels like a lifetime.

Abigail bums a cigarette off Molly. “You don’t even smoke.”

Irritably, “Maybe I’m starting.”

The relief when Arthur brings John back to her is brief, quickly replaced with the realization that if the cold don’t get him, the blood loss surely will. His face is mangled almost past recognition. Thank goodness no tears come, for they’d freeze in her eyes.

John is dying and Abigail shakes with rage. Whatever she allowed to be buried two years ago claws its way out and it is ugly. He’s gonna leave them _again_.

How dare John scare her like this, put her on the edge of this precipice? If John is done with her, so be it. It aches something fierce, but Abigail supposes she’s used to it.

But John has a responsibility to Jack he has shirked far too often. Jack don’t understand why his daddy wants so little to do with them, with him. It makes her see redder than the bloody rags in her hands.

John hisses as Grimshaw and Pearson tend to him. He’s suffering and Lord, he deserves it.

“Mr. Pearson’s pretty handy with a needle. John’ll make it,” Grimshaw promises. It’s not the relief it should be.

Abigail sits at John’s side because it’s expected. Don’t mean she has to look at him. Her fingers itch for another cigarette.

Jack sneaks peeks at John, always burying his face back in Abigail’s skirt whenever his parents catch him staring.

Hoarsely, “Am I finally too ugly for you, Abigail?”

Abigail bites down hard on the inside of her mouth and ignores him.

The wind howls outside. The storm shows no signs of letting up. It is cold, Abigail is colder.

\----------

It is but for the grace of Dutch John isn’t thrown back in a tent with the rest of the men to nurse his wounds and stew.

He is not welcome back in Abigail’s. She’s finally punishing him and this weren’t even his fault. It’s like she knows his fevered thoughts on the mountainside of disappearing for good. _His family’s better without him._

They give each other wide berths. John can’t say if it’s a relief or not.

Jack, all too used to John’s absence, is happy to flit between mother and father, unaware of the widening rift between them.

John’s at the overlook, feeling the tender stitches. He’s not so vain to think he was a prize to begin with, but now no one will have him.

Caught up in his misery John only just spots movement from the corner of his eye. “Jack, best get back from the edge or you’re liable to fall.”

The boy heeds him while also sidling closer.

“Jack, go help shell peas,” Abigail says tersely from behind John, out of sight.

“Okay,” Jack says cheerily skipping off to see to his chores.

The two of them alone, Abigail’s eyes are narrowed on John. “ _Now_ you’re gonna play at fatherhood?”

He ain’t playing, the boy needed to be told. He could say as much to Abigail but John’s been spoiling for this fight for years and he comes with venom. “ _If_ I’m even his father.”

It’s a low blow and a lie, but John never wanted this. A fight’s the only way to end it and he wants, _needs_ Abigail to draw blood.

Her face is a deadly grey, balled fists shaking at her sides. John wonders if Abigail will push him off the side of the cliff.

“John Marston, you are _horrible_ ,” she spits from between her clenched teeth before storming off. He’s hurt her, she hasn’t hurt him enough.

And poor Jack has no idea his pa ain’t even close to worthy of him.

If John believed the Devil could possess a man, surely he is possessed, casting aspersions on Abigail’s honor to those who’ll listen. Dutch and Hosea rightfully ignore him.

“No shit, Marston, she were a whore. And you call me stupid,” Bill chortles before quickly adding, “Ain’t mine neither.”

Even if John thought it were true, he knew full well Abigail wouldn’t touch Williamson with a ten-foot pole. The man is a dumbass.

John drinks. God forbid he turn into Bill Williamson or worse, Uncle, but there’s solace in drink and better yet, it pisses Abigail off. Her eyes narrow across the camp as she watches him slug back whiskey before noon.

Abigail has her own retaliation with every man better suited to be a father than John.

John catches her hovering over Jack’s reading lessons with Hosea. Jack kicks his legs out from under his nightshirt, impatient. Hosea fares little better than John did, but the kid’s too smart for all of them.

News gets around the camp Abigail asked Arthur to take Jack out fishing, but the gang’s bigger concern is the Pinkertons that cornered them on the outing. Both should terrify John in near-equal measure.

John catches Abigail by the wrist, skin warm and smooth under his thumb. “Is Jack alright?”

She easily yanks out of his grip. “Like you care.”

She keeps the boy close so John can’t check in on him direct.

Arthur comes up to John at the campfire alone. “Jack did real well. Didn’t cause no trouble.”

They ain’t exactly been on speaking terms outside jobs. Arthur went cold again after Colter, no doubt Abigail’s influence. If John could put a word to it, he’d say Arthur sounded proud of Jack.

For the first time, John wishes he could hold his own kid, even for a minute. Arthur needed the time with Jack more than John. That hurts worse than the still-healing scars. 

“He’s a good kid,” John says dully. “Can’t take any credit.”

“Marston we both know you could if you just _would_.” Arthur sounds both Dutch and Hosea at once. It’s aggravating as Hell.

If John were a better friend, he’d ask how seeing to Mary went, but he can guess the sum of it. That woman crushes Arthur every time.

John’s not drunk enough when he kicks Sean and Karen out of his tent _again_.

“I am sick of seeing your ass!” he yells as Sean retreats, still yanking up his trousers.

John catches Abigail’s eye across the way as he turns back into his tent. He hopes for a grin from her. Abigail is stony-faced. If they were still together, they’d both laugh.

He’s self-copulating like a dumb kid again; it ain’t a replacement, nor is it the real problem. John misses her so fucking much, worse than the year he was gone.

John’s not been a constant man, not for the gang, for Dutch, Hosea, Arthur – John needs Abigail’s constancy, but he’s dashed all chance his chance for her and Jack. He’ll need to learn to live with it.

\----------

Things go south in Valentine, such is the gang’s luck is these days. Abigail doesn’t spare a second look when John comes back bloodied.

Mrs. Adler sits with Abigail most mornings while she does her darning by the lake. She don’t make demands on Abigail like the other girls, just quietly smokes her cigarette. Abigail finds it a comforting. They both lost their men up in the Grizzlies, though Abigail would never say as much to the woman.

Arthur still manages to tip his hat to them, oats slung over his shoulder. “Abigail, Mrs. Adler.”

“Man’s got a funny sense of chivalry,” Mrs. Adler snorts when Arthur’s out of earshot.

“Oh, that’s just Arthur’s way, Mrs. Adler.”

“He’s partial to you,” she drags on her cigarette.

Abigail squirms. _It ain’t true._

He came back to camp shoulder-slumped after seeing his Mary. Even if it were true, which it ain’t, Abigail’s set, even if John’s being an absolute idiot. They still aren’t speaking, but at least neither runs the risk of hurting the other further.

Abigail sets her chin, “He’s been a good friend, nothing more, Mrs. Adler.”

Mrs. Adler’s exhale lets out a great plume of smoke. “What do I know? I’m new here. And for goodness sake, it’s Sadie.”

Abigail watches Arthur closely after that conversation. There was a time she might have wondered if what Sadie said was true, but Abigail was too flush with her infatuation with John.

Arthur ain’t as close as he used to be. He’s attentive to Jack sure, but it really seems the same politeness he extends to all the camp girls for her.

Abigail backs into someone as she unloads the groceries from the wagon, and she just _knows._

“Let me help you with that,” Arthur easily lifts the crate out of her arms.

“I can manage,” Abigail says, irritable.

“I know you can, just thought I’d offer.”

It gets under her skin different somehow. It’s still bothering her when Hosea reviews Jack’s reading progress.

Hosea follows her eye. “Arthur’s always been a bit weak for a girl in need.”

Abigail shakes her head, “But John –”

Hosea pats her hand, smiling warmly. “I know girl, don’t look too much into it. That’s like pointing out Dutch looks for girls who follow his ‘Word.’ We all have our vices.”

_That_ rattles Abigail too. She’s sick of people telling her she’s gotta feel a certain way, tossing and turning in her tent.

Maybe the only way to really hurt John is make good on his talk on her infidelity and screw every man in the camp. Get pregnant again, call the kid ‘Marston’ when every soul would know it for a damn lie. Abigail’s certain she’s made herself so off-limits, they’d all turn her down except Micah. His leering sets her skin crawling.

_Maybe Arthur…_

Abigail flips over so she can’t watch Jack sleep.

Arthur is her friend but he don’t let people in. John is her husband and she knows him, warts and all. Abigail wouldn’t trade the few more nights in Arthur’s bed for what she had with John, even if it’s over now. That would break all three of their hearts.

It’s an altogether stupid idea since John’s stopped spewing his horseshit anyway.

Still, there’s an itch growing between her legs, no amount of rubbing her thighs together will satisfy.

\----------

Hosea and Dutch’s plans to play Gray off of Braithwaite is cockamamie. John wonders if Arthur shares his reservations but the man’s been distant from everyone, not just John, since Colm O’Driscoll captured him.

_Leave it be, Marston._

John’s sizing up Charles Smith and the widow Adler over his noon meal when Abigail storms up to him, hair in disarray and eyes wild.

“Where is my son?” she digs her fingers into John’s shoulder.

John hasn’t seen Jack for hours.

For a brief moment as he bolts up, John holds Abigail’s hand and she doesn’t pull away. It’s more practical for them to run opposite directions, tearing through the camp for any sign. John fears Jack’s drowned, wading out waist-deep looking for a body.

“Don’t see him!” Lenny calls, further out. It don’t comfort John.

Commotion at the camp doubles when Bill rides in with Sean’s corpse slung over his horse at dusk.

John and Hosea almost don’t hear Kieran, soft-spoken as the kid is. “Braithwaite boys, I’m sure of it.”

“And we’re trusting an O’Driscoll because?” John rasps, voice hoarse from calling out.

“Son, you’re not thinking rationally right now,” Hosea pats John’s arm before thanking Kieran.

John doesn’t argue, but he’s never seen clearer in his life. Braithwaites took his son and he’ll personally see every one dead. He won’t look at Abigail as they ride out. He can’t until Jack’s back in her arms.

Arthur’s next to John the whole time, nor is John imaging Arthur putting himself in front of the hail of bullets. Arthur may be the only thing keeping John this side of sane when there’s no sign of Jack.

_Gone not dead._ It ain’t a good enough answer.

Catherine Braithwaite howls in agony for her for her dead sons. Even monsters feel for their children, so what does that make John?

_Gone not dead._ He failed Abigail.

The girls see to Abigail round-the-clock as they move from Clemens Point to Shady Belle. The old house smells of rot; rotting wood, rotting corpses. John’s not sure it’s a kindness on Dutch’s part, putting Abigail up in this dying place.

John sits on the floor outside her room. Abigail alternates between racking sobs and silence. Tilly trades off with Grimshaw; as Grimshaw passes John, she gives him a look that is not quite despairing.

Dutch bows and scrapes to Angelo Bronte, leaving John and Arthur to do the dirty work. 

_Whatever it takes._

A lump’s caught in John’s throat when Jack comes running down the mansion steps, well-fed and well-dressed, not a scratch on him. Jack’s lost his first tooth, John notes, yet another thing he’s missed in his son’s life only now Abigail’s missed it too.

Abigail tears towards them on the happy return; John takes a step back. Even if she won’t take him back, John’s got peace of mind he didn’t fail Abigail when she needed it most.

\----------

Jack secure in her arms, Abigail’s sure she’s never letting him go again.

His breathing is regular against her chest, unaware of the tears and anguish his disappearance caused. Her son smells different, like clean kerosene and fine-milled soaps. Soon enough he’ll smell of camp again.

Abigail is so caught up in the joy of Jack back safe and unharmed she doesn’t immediately notice John’s hand on hers by the fire. For a moment she thinks it is for her comfort, but when she notices his hand shakes, she realizes it is for him. She smiles in reassurance.

It’s a cool, misty night, but Abigail could swear she’s never felt warmer.

Jack yawns and they step away from the celebration, John following close on the hem of her skirt. John’s hands still shake when he suggests they live like a family again. Abigail agrees because he has brought her greatest joy back, she doesn’t care who thinks her a fool.

Shoulder-to-shoulder watching Jack fall asleep, it’s the closest they’ve been in months. John’s staring at her; Abigail picks at the fraying edge of her shawl for want of something to do.

“I know you was heartsick over all this and I just wanted to say I was too,” John says with some effort. “And I’m sorry for things I said that ain’t true. I hurt you both bad, ain’t nothing gonna fix that.”

Tears prick at the corner of her eyes, but Abigail refuses to cry about this anymore even as it becomes harder to swallow. In the distance, Dutch is speechifying.

“Hey,” John says softly, putting one hand over hers, the other lifts her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I’m gonna do right by Jack and you.”

Abigail recognizes it: the intent with which John spoke of a better future for himself, for her when she first fell in love with him.

Their faces are so close and it would be nothing, nothing at all to kiss him. She’s missed him past aching.

Abigail takes the coward’s way out, clearing her throat. “The boy needs his rest.”

John makes a noise of frustration but respects her wishes, vacating the mattress.

Abigail regrets the absence of John’s warmth as a storm whips violently outside, bringing the rollicking to a close. The thin blanket has always been a poor substitute for her husband.

In a flash of lightning she sees John clear as day; leaning back in the chair, still awake. She thinks she smells a whiff of cigar smoke from the balcony.

\----------

John’s already positioned himself for another uncomfortable evening in the chair. It’s a small price to pay to have his family close at hand.

Abigail looks over her shoulder, blouse half undone. “Come to bed, John,” she murmurs, almost in pity before turning back around to finish undressing.

John wastes no time stripping down his clothes. His neck can’t take another night in the chair.

He’s in first, but when Abigail lies down beside him, she puts her back to him. John exhales in disappointment yet unsurprised. He missed her more than she missed him, he cannot blame her there. He rolls over and faces the wall.

John believes he’s imagining fingertips brushing against his arm until he cracks open an eye to find Abigail closer than ever. He takes the liberty of putting a hand on her hip and kisses her. She takes fistfuls of his union suit, kissing with more hunger.

John needs no further prompting. He gets her drawers off as she manages the buttons of the union suit. Naked himself, he ain’t even finished the job for her when Abigail’s pulling him back, her legs around his waist. He’ll content himself with reacquainting to the feel of her under the chemise.

Positioned very comfortably between her legs, John’s ready when Abigail huffs in disapproval.

“What?”

“With your tongue first.”

He snorts indignantly.

“I’ve done it often enough for you.”

Dutch swore by it, but John never saw the bother when his and Abigail’s coupling went fine – more than fine by his estimates. He’s not about to argue with her tonight.

Repositioned, he’s not entirely sure what to do. Hitching up her hem, he goes for what feels like virgin territory on the inside of her thighs. Abigail always did like when he used his teeth; she makes a noise that goes straight to his head. Emboldened, John gets even closer, a starving man.

Maybe it’s been too long, but John doesn’t recall Abigail ever responding like this. He looks up in time to see her clamping back a scream. While it’s best not to wake Jack, John finds he doesn’t give a shit who else in camp hears.

“Alright, John,” Abigail finally shudders, voice thick, making him feel some kind of way.

Thank Christ too, because he’s not sure he would have managed much longer. He scrambles back on top of her to finish.

“I love you,” John murmurs into the crook of her neck.

“You just saying that?”

“No. I promise.”

She grins, “Alright, John.”

Dawn is grey when John slips out for guard duty. In the low light he can make out half of Abigail’s braid has come loose. She’s smiling in her sleep.

John’s mind isn’t much on the morning patrol.

\----------

Afforded a privacy they’ve never had before, Abigail and John sneak off to secluded spots away from the big house. There’s little dignity in being taken up against a tree, but Abigail can’t help but smile through John’s kisses, the scars creating new sensations on her skin.

It’s near proper, almost four walls and a roof, but Abigail senses something else. First time, John wasn’t making an effort with Jack. Second time, her reconciliation had been hollow. They’re both trying to do better.

They take suppers together as a family, Jack paying more mind to slurping his stew loudly than his parents’ conversation.

“I was speaking with Hosea and I think I could be a help with the bank job in Saint Denis.”

John raises a skeptical brow, “Is that so?”

“Jack’s old enough I can leave him to be minded by the girls and well, I’d like to get out again sometime soon.”

John snorts. A few weeks ago, Abigail would have taken his laughter for unkindness. Instead she smiles, pleased. They haven’t been on a job together since Jack.

Kieran’s headless body is a bad omen the whole gang can’t ignore. There’s a pang in Abigail’s chest when Jack clings to John for comfort rather than her, but ain’t this what she wanted all along?

John is more rattled when he and the others return from Bronte’s mansion.

“He’s dead, weren’t that what we wanted?” Abigail whispers so Jack can’t hear. It’s surely what she wanted.

John’s not looking at her, winding her hair around his fingers. “I look forward to killing the bastard again in Hell, but there were something not right about Dutch. I can’t figure it.”

Readying for the bank job, Abigail’s Sunday finest is too drab, so Grimshaw commandeers one of Molly’s dresses. The pair get into another spat Abigail tries her best to ignore as she laces her corset tighter than usual. She’s ain’t got Molly’s figure, but she can fake it.

“Ain’t you pretty?” John says with a kiss to the cheek as she admires herself in a cracked mirror.

Mary-Beth titters from the other room. If she were the blushing sort, Abigail would be embarrassed, but as such her heart is in her throat and she don’t know why.

“You’re looking mighty fine yourself.”

“We ought to do this more often.”

“See you when we’re rich,” she says, swirling the full skirt around before joining Hosea at the carriage.

Abigail runs her flirtatious distraction, as Hosea goes to set the charges, the old affectations coming back easy. Any good working girl knows how to keep a man at arm’s length.

Hosea spots the Pinkertons moments before they lose everything.

“Be a good girl and run.”

“But –”

Hosea, who Abigail’s never received a cross word from, narrows his eyes, “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Abigail slips into the alley, fist stuffed in her mouth, daring no noise as she listens to Hosea try to talk his way out one final time. He is only answered with heavy blows.

It’s a matter of minutes when Hell breaks loose and it sounds like gunfire echoes down every street. Abigail gives the bank a wide berth, but refuses to abandon the city. She must find someone, _anyone_.

After the sounds of the fight fade, there’s still confusion, policemen barking orders to widen the search. She dares moving closer as they dump Lenny’s body in the street next to Hosea’s; Abigail finally heeds his orders and runs.

It’s well after dark when she returns to Shady Belle. Her feet are blistered and the dress is dust-streaked, near ruined. There’s no Molly to snipe at her when there are far worse things to worry about.

Camp is near packed when Charles stumbles back at dawn with the first bit of news that gives Abigail hope.

“John’s not dead?”

“Not yet at least.”

She carries Jack to the wagon even though he’s too big for it, mercifully sleeping through the evening’s hysteria. He doesn’t hear Cain mournfully barking as the gang leaves him behind.

Lakay stinks worse than their last camp.

Abigail excuses herself to be alone, hidden behind a tree. She won’t cry, not if there’s a chance of getting John back, but her stomach won’t stop churning in worry. By rights, she should be angry with him for letting this happen again, but she went too.

Abigail’s been angry with John, furious. She resented him more this year than the year he left them without a word. She’s never hated him though.

The past few weeks changed her as she think it did him. It’s not a youthful infatuation anymore; it’s something that’s tethered them together for good. She wants a future with him she fears they’ll never have.

_No_. She’ll see him home to her and Jack so help her God.

Charles and Sadie speak in hushed tones away from the cabins, spooked when Abigail appears from the shadows. They find this place as unsettling as she does.

“We’re stealing their bodies back.”

“Good. I’ll help.”

While Charles seems intent on the dirt, Sadie frowns. “This about John?”

Abigail crosses her arms, unintimidated. “Do you want my help or not?”

Neither of them argues.

No one grabbed Molly’s trousseau in the retreat, Abigail settles on being plainer. Mary-Beth pinches color into her cheeks to sell the look a little better.

“This air agrees with no one,” she assures Abigail, as if that’s the cause of her distress. Jack doesn’t look up when Abigail kisses him goodbye on top of the head.

Abigail ain’t an actress like Karen nor good at putting on airs like Molly, but she stirs a suitable fuss at the station about a stolen family heirloom. Hopefully it buys the others the time they need.

When the officer steps away to file a report, she slips further down the hall to see if she hears any gossip.

“– apparently Lemoyne’s fine with leaving the Van der Linde guy in Sisika ‘til they’re ready to let him swing. Shoulda given him to the city, one bullet to the head would have solved it with less fuss.”

Abigail sucks on her teeth, running back to the lobby. She puts on more of a show about Aunt Susan’s very fine missing necklace to hide her panic.

Sadie and Charles look at a loss when Abigail relays the news, but nowhere near as lost as she feels. Getting John out of the state penitentiary seems too large for any of them now.

Grimshaw excuses Abigail from dressing the bodies for burial. Instead she collects swamp flowers with Jack. They’re ugly things but it distracts her and the boy for a while. Swanson says the words at Hosea and Lenny’s gravesides; Mary-Beth and Tilly cry. It sounds like Karen’s crying, but mostly she’s drunk.

Abigail thinks about how they won’t be able to bury John nor anyone else here. She doesn’t cry for she is utterly empty.

When Arthur walks in the front door, sallow and thin, there is recourse. He and Abigail can get John back, even if no one else will.

\----------

There’s a ghost of a rope around his neck John can’t stop rubbing at. He feels it worse whenever he spies Dutch.

John’s used to playing the Prodigal Son, but Guarma gave Arthur a bite he didn’t used to have, pushing back on Dutch the way Hosea used to.

John and Arthur seem to have a silent communication they lacked in youth. Mostly it amounts to Arthur glaring ‘don’t you dare’, which is very familiar. 

If only the man took his own advice. Arthur’s near dead on his feet half the time, leaning on Charles when they come back from dealings on the reservation.

Not that the coffee was ever particularly good, but it seems to be even more shit one morning after a night patrol. John’s staring at nothing when something at his knee startles him.

Jack’s eyes looking up at him are large and mournful. “Pa?”

“I’m real tired boy, can you ask your momma?”

Jack doesn’t heed him. “Aunt Karen was yelling this morning.”

John sighs. He wants to be there for his son, but Christ is he beat. “Yeah, that was hard to miss.”

“Is Aunt Susan going to shoot her too?”

It’s a miracle those two haven’t killed each other, but John figures if it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not likely now. “What on Earth gave you that idea?”

“Molly yelled.”

_Shit._

John won’t make excuses and say his childhood was any kind of easy, but Jack is so goddamn _young_. The thought twists like a knife to the lungs.

The attacks on the camps, Kieran, Molly – John’s sure his time in jail did the boy no favors either. It’s a miracle the kidnapping hasn’t seemed to rattled Jack the way it did him and Abigail.

“It’ll be okay Jack, I promise.”

John’s watched Abigail tell their son little fibs over the years. This is the first time he’s had to lie to him and it’s a big one. It feels worse than every bald-face allegation the boy ain’t his.

The gang’s on a knife’s edge. Normally John’d drink, but he’s trying to keep his mind clear, eyes sharp.

Neither he nor Abigail are in much of a mood at night. The silence is punctured by Arthur’s hacking coughs the next tent over. If that man’s health don’t start to improve, John’ll bully him better.

Still he holds her close absently running a hand up and down her back. He can feel her ribs, too close under her skin.

“You gotta eat more,” John gently chides Abigail. “Keep your strength up for Jack.”

“I saw you putting half your portion on his plate this morning.”

Like she ain’t been doing the same. “We’ll trade off, how’s that sound?”

Abigail nods in agreement, chewing on her bottom lip in thought. “I saw Dutch today –”

“I’ve seen the man most days –”

“John, stop being glib. I mean I followed him down into those caves. I think I know where the gang’s savings are.”

John ain’t rightly sure what Abigail’s saying. “You suggesting _stealing_ that money?”

More hard wheezing from Arthur’s tent.

Once the labored breathing’s subsided, “I’m saying we ought to know what our options are.”

John never considered Abigail a soft woman. It’s her grit he likes best, but never in a hundred years would he have entertained the slip of a girl he fell for proposing they steal Dutch Van der Linde for all he’s worth.

Much less that John’s seriously considering it. Dutch was a better father to John than his own flesh and blood. _Was._

John takes in a shaky breath. “Don’t do it, Abigail. He’d kill you sure as he was primed to pull the trigger on Molly.”

“I won’t, John. Don’t worry.”

He believes her, but the knowledge haunts him, as well as the ghost of lingering coughs.

\----------

It is hours after the fact Abigail realizes her wrists are rubbed red and raw.

_Like that matters. John’s dead and they surely left Arthur for dead too. It’s all over._

Every time the grief washes over her, a fresh sob escapes from Abigail’s chest, a well of never-ending sorrow. She don’t mistake Sadie’s loud sniffles in front of her, urging her horse still faster.

Abigail needs Jack, her last piece of John.

She can’t bear the thought of her last look at John, eyes full of reluctance to ride off to ‘one last job’. John’s love wasn’t enough to bring him back. Arthur’s reassurance hardly feels a comfort either.

_Oh, Arthur._

The morning that greets them has no business being so pretty. _Don’t it know?_

Abigail never knew she’d be so grateful for the stink of the Lannahechee. She’s almost to Jack. He needs her, his last living family.

“Who’s that?” Tilly calls out from the ruins of a house, the unmistakable click of a pistol following.

“It’s us, Tilly,” Sadie’s voice cracks from disuse.

“Thank goodness, Abigail, Mrs. Adler!”

Abigail’s throat’s stuck. She dismounts, reaching for Jack. Jack won’t peel himself off from Tilly, Abigail practically has to yank him free. He shakes like a leaf in her arms. All Abigail can do is rock and shush him like a newborn even though he ain’t crying.

“Weren’t Arthur looking for –” Tilly starts to ask.

Abigail gulps for air when Sadie catches her eye.

Sadie shakes her head at Tilly. “Arthur weren’t looking too long for the world when he went to head off Dutch and Micah.”

Tilly claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

“Uncle Arthur’s dead too, like pa?” Jack asks, his brow knit so like John. Abigail wishes Jack weren’t so bright. _What good will lying do?_

“I’m so sorry, Jack. So sorry we couldn’t protect you better.”

Sadie keeps lookout on the marsh around them. “We better not stick around.”

“You two are exhausted, you gotta rest or we’ll get nowhere,” Tilly insists. “No one was by last night and besides, that horse ain’t fit for any more hard riding.”

Sadie looks ready to fight it but nods, hitching the horse out of sight of the road.

Neither Tilly nor Sadie talk to Abigail, leaving her be with her son.

“Any notion what the old battle axe’ll do?”

“Grimshaw can take care of herself. I’m just glad Mary-Beth got Karen out when they could.”

Sadie speaks even lower, “I got half a mind to go back for Arthur’s body. John’s too if I can manage.”

_Dead._ Arthur’s been dying for weeks, months maybe and they didn’t see to him. He didn’t get the comfort of family by his side in the end.

_Dead._ Abigail’s lived with the threat of a violent end to John’s life for years. Dutch as good as pulled the lever, good as fired the gun.

Abigail squeezes her eyes shut, forcing tears out. In the dark, John swings from the gallows, blood soaks the ground.

The day wears on. Sadie and Tilly divide the money Arthur left.

“It’s safer hidden on our person,” Sadie says, handing Abigail the stack of bills. This is what John died for. Abigail feels nothing.

Day stretches forever into night. Abigail has never been more exhausted in body and unable to sleep. Jack at least stopped sniffling and found some rest.

It’s only starlight and the tip of Sadie’s cigarette in the pitch black. Mist rolls in before dawn.

“We’ll take advantage of this cover,” Sadie says, saddling up the horses.

Abigail’s feet carry her away from them. Just a moment alone before another hard ride.

Staring into the fog, Abigail sees a ghost. She wonders if this is the last she’ll see John or if he’ll haunt her the rest of her life. Fresh hot tears roll down her cheeks. _She don’t want to be alone._

The ghost stumbles slightly. “Abigail, thank God –” it chokes before crashing into her, crushing her hard against its chest. The ghost smells and feels just like John. _It’s cruel._

“No, no, no, no.” Abigail can’t bear it, her legs going out from under her.

“Abigail, it’s me.” John catches her before she completely collapses into the mud. His kiss pulls the air from her lungs.

“You’re dead,” Abigail manages between sobs.

Hands cradling her arms, “No, I ain’t. I’m right here.”

Abigail’s head swims, she can’t see straight. “You’re dead. Arthur’s dead.”

There’s a hitch in John’s breath, “He got me back to you.”

Whatever strength it’s taking John to hold them both upright is fast fading. “Abigail, I gotta sit, my shoulder ain’t doing so good.”

“Holy shit, _Marston_ ,” Sadie exclaims, breaking the spell.

Abigail isn’t dreaming. She’s never been so happy to cry.

Sadie helps John back to their hiding place; Tilly fetches water from the river.

“No yelling when I pull the bullet out, understand John?” Sadie orders.

John nods, gripping onto Abigail’s hands for dear life. He’s cutting off the blood, but Abigail don’t care. It means he’s alive. Even Jack puts his small hands on top of theirs.

“Appreciate that son,” John pants, putting a kiss to the boy’s temple before passing out.

“One more day, but that’s it,” Sadie says. “I don’t like lingering.”

Neither does Abigail, but oh thank God they did.

The rest of the day passes in relative quiet, Abigail only keeping busy changing John’s bandages. She nestles Jack securely between herself and John, the happiest sound in the world their even, tandem breathing.

Tears prick the corners of her eyes again. It’s all thanks to Arthur. If only there were something they could have done for him.

\----------

They push north. There ain’t a good direction for them to run and north’s as good as any in John’s estimations.

Thankfully the bullet hole don’t seem infected. There’s enough money for a doctor, but the less questions asked, the better.

Abigail has Jack share the bed with them every hotel they stop in. John doesn’t mind if it brings them comfort, but a four-year old who weighs next to nothing has no business taking up so much space.

Restless and overwarm, John gets out of the bed. The glass windowpane is temporary, cool relief. When John turns back around, Jack’s rolled into the unoccupied space. _That poor kid._

His parents have watched him go from curious and happy to withdrawn and quiet. They’ve all done a shit job giving Jack the life he ought to have, John most especially.

Abigail stirs. “Everything alright?” she asks groggily.

“It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Ever stubborn, Abigail gets up anyway, slipping behind John and wrapping her arms around his waist. She buries her face between his shoulder blades for a brief moment before peering out to watch Jack with him.

“Where are you at, John?” Abigail murmurs.

There’s only one thing John can think of as Jack sleeps. It ain’t John’s secret to tell, but Arthur’s not here anymore to object.

Lacing his fingers in hers, “Arthur had a little boy, Jack’s age.”

Abigail inhales in surprise. “What? I had no idea. Not with Mary, surely.”

John shakes his head. “No. I never met the girl or his son. Arthur didn’t want too many folks knowing. His way of protecting them, though that didn’t save them in the end.”

“What happened?”

“They were killed, about a year before you came on. He was so heartbroke by it, I didn’t even hear direct from him. Hosea told me.”

More than ever before, John understands what was never to be fixed in Arthur. Too much recently has brought John perilously close. Even assured of Abigail and Jack’s safety, the long march to Copperhead Landing was the most terror John’s held in his heart.

Abigail’s voice sounds on the verge of tears, which John cannot abide. “If I’d have known – that was cruel of me to ask him to look out for Jack –”

“I think it’s probably the kindest thing you could have done for him,” John squeezes her hand in reassurance.

“Do you remember their names?”

Clear as the day Arthur handed John the letter with his news. “Isaac and Eliza.”

John eyes Arthur’s satchel, fearing to open it. Like the old Dutch, the man was unwaveringly sentimental, but John doubts that particular letter survived.

Attention back on Jack, John’s mind conjures up an image of Isaac: a boy near four and the picture of Arthur.

John never wondered on Arthur at that age. Even in John’s youth, Arthur was a grown man; someone John had to pay mind to, someone he ought to become. Now Arthur’s set a task before John, but he ain’t here to follow.

He crumples to the floor. Abigail’s arms rock him gently as his shoulders shake uncontrollably.

John wants his goddamn brother back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have 'The Wheel' on repeat writing the last section making me Big Sad? Yes.


	3. Hope builds a house

There’s a great deal of fuss being made about the new century. Far as Abigail can see, the new year is another hard one in front of them.

Her dreams are the same. Running through a wide-open field searching for Jack, no sign of his head breaching the tall grass. John hanging from the balcony of the old house at Shady Belle, lightly swaying in the warm breeze.

When Abigail wakes, neither are gone and there are more practical things to fear. The money won’t last forever, they’re gonna have to find work.

“Wash-work is easy enough to pick up,” Tilly points out over a camp breakfast.

“I suppose I could sneak Jack in,” Abigail considers. Ain’t no way Jack could accompany the jobs John takes on.

Tilly frowns, “I was actually thinking about heading off while I’ve still got enough left, try and find Mary-Beth and Karen.”

If it were just herself, Abigail would consider joining Tilly.

“Jack’ll miss you something fierce. We all will,” she squeezes Tilly’s hand.

Jack won’t let go when they say their farewells.

“I’ll write if you promise to write me, Jackie.”

Muffled, “I promise, Aunt Tilly.”

“Sure you don’t want me to come with?” Sadie offers one last time.

“I’ll make out alright,” Tilly reassures them.

Working at hotel laundry puts Abigail at ease. She can lock Jack in their room at the places the proprietor won’t let her keep him close.

Abigail’s pumped several buckets when the desk clerk catches her. “It ain’t your work, but mind bringing those to room four for a bath?”

That’s their room. It’s far too early for John to be back from work, yet there he is, wincing his way out of his shirt.

“Must have overworked my shoulder at the lumberyard,” John hisses as he eases into the tub.

“Sadie weren’t there to help you?”

John rolls his eyes, “Who knows what that woman gets up to when we’re in town.”

Abigail harrumphs, annoyed at John – more annoyed at Sadie. John can’t put himself out of work already, Abigail don’t make nearly enough.

Divining Abigail’s mood, John pats her hand. “Don’t fret, I’ll be back at it tomorrow.”

She sniffs. “Jack, mind your pa for me and make sure he don’t drown himself in the tub.”

John snorts as Abigail closes the door behind her.

He’s reading the paper, Jack at his side, when Abigail finishes for the day and joins them in the hotel dining room.

“I might have an idea where we could go next,” John says, folding the paper.

“You eager to see the back of every place we try?”

“I’d be happy to get as far away from all of this as possible. Happy to see you not have to work so hard.”

Abigail glances at her rough hands folded in her lap. “Where is this fairytale place you’ve found?”

John grins, the man who first caught her eye. “There’s gold in Yukon. Don’t matter if we strike it, there’s easy money to be made in places like that.”

Abigail couldn’t place it on a map, but it does sound as far removed as they can get from the grief and the law hounding at their heels. “We might see if Sadie’s got an interest.”

“I’ll put the case to her when she gets back tonight.”

John’s still not back when Abigail wakes in the middle of the night. Wrapped in a blanket, Abigail spies the dark outlines of two people on the hotel porch, speaking in low voices, cigarette smoke wafting in.

“– just as soon see him dead.” Sadie cuts herself off as Abigail opens the front door. Hurriedly, “Abigail, I promise I didn’t abscond with your husband.”

Abigail laughs, “Well I wasn’t worried about that ‘til this moment.” She can brush off whatever Sadie felt the need to tell John in confidence. If it’s important, John’ll say.

“Sadie’s declining on the Yukon offer,” John says.

Abigail’s heart sinks. She’s come to rely on the other woman’s company. Sadie leaving takes the last of the old days with her, something they’ll never go back to, however much it hurt them in the end.

“As exciting as gold mining sounds, we was born too late for the California rush. I do not think I’d care for Yukon.”

Abigail inhales, bracing for another goodbye. “Take care of yourself, don’t get yourself killed.”

“I’ll try for your sake, honey,” Sadie says, free with a hug for Abigail, a sturdy handshake for John.

Abigail and John pool their money; Abigail worries he spent too much on their team, but if they’re to invest in anything, it ought to be sturdy horses.

On the wagon seat in between them, Jack admires his new mittens, though it’s too warm for them yet.

“What do you think Jack, ready for an adventure?” John asks.

“Yes, sir!” Jack pipes up.

Abigail beams at the pair of them. It is the start of something she dreamed of so long ago.

\----------

John can tolerate the cold, but he’ll never get used to night stretching on forever. The snow don’t illuminate anything.

He comes home to Abigail and Jack pouring over one of his books by the light of a single candle.

“You’re gonna strain your eyes, learning to read in the dark,” John says, cracking the thin layer of ice in the washbowl. Best get the other men’s blood off his knuckles before Abigail notices.

She huffs, but heeds his advice, sending Jack to bed. “You’re hair’s getting long again.”

The beard’s proven practical not only in hiding John’s old scars but kept half his face from freezing off. If his hair’s a bridge too far for Abigail, she’s welcome to shear it off.

Abigail’s fingertips are firm at the nape of his neck. “Your haircuts are _much_ nicer than Grimshaw’s ever was.”

Abigail snorts, “I know you mean that as a compliment, but it is weak, John Marston.”

He chuckles, then clears his throat, “Got offered a chance at mine security, Abigail.”

He’s greeted with quiet except for the snipping of scissors. John continues, “It’s not gold money, but it’s good and it’s regular.”

“Better suited to your skills too, I imagine.”

So maybe she did notice the blood. “You mean guarding safes?”

“It’s a different than cracking them, but I think you’ll get the hang of it.” Abigail stops cutting. “I hate it here.”

“If you don’t want me to take the job, I’ll find something else.”

“No, it ain’t that. This place, it’s –” Abigail fumbles to find the words. “It’s Colter again somehow. I know it’s silly.”

It’s a damning comparison. However low John was all those years ago, Abigail was even lower. This extended experiment in the north may not have been worth it. They’re okay on money, but there’s not much else to show for it.

There’s no company for Abigail the way there used to be in the gang and Jack remains the only child for miles. And if stepping in on the miners’ fight today proved anything, it’s that his capacity for violence is still John’s only commodity.

“No it ain’t. If you wanna leave, just say the word.”

“Please, John.”

John takes her chilled hand to his lips, sealing the contract.

“You gotta admit one thing,” John murmurs when they are curled under layers of blankets.

“Hmm?”

“The beds here are a lot less lonely than Colter.”

Abigail buries her head against John’s chest. Even through her stockings, her feet are freezing.

The roads south are slick with mud, everything’s slow going. The wagon’s stuck. Again.

“Help your pa with the wheels,” Abigail tells Jack as she takes up the reigns.

John watches Jack blink against the bright sun. The boy’s wrists stick out from his sleeves, like John’s did at that age. Jack don’t have nearly enough weight to throw around to be of any help.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” John reassures Jack.

If John didn’t know better, he’d say Jack looks put out. Better the boy pout than slip and split his chin open.

John’s done as Abigail’s asked and he’ll do it again, but it feels as though they are in retreat again.

Signs to Roanoke make John clutch his rifle a little tighter when they make camp for the night. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

\----------

What went down in Roanoake weren’t John’s fault, yet Abigail can’t help but grind her teeth. Any gains they’ve made over the past few years are gone and John’s wanted again. Her old nightmares return.

Pronghorn Ranch can’t be forever, Abigail’s not so naïve as that, but for now, it’s contentment. They have a routine; Jack has stability for the first time in his short life. That’s more to Abigail than any amount of money.

John does his usual paw at her when Abigail’s up to make coffee first thing. This morning, he’s successful catching her and keeping her in bed.

Abigail adjusts so her hips are snug against his. “Someone’s alert already.”

“Don’t even need the coffee,” John smirks.

“You’re gonna be late. Those cows’ll be mighty unhappy.”

He kisses her. “So be it.”

Abigail arrives at the surgeon’s office altogether too flushed.

On days Abigail’s not required to scrub the surgery, nothing makes her happier than taking noon meals with John and Jack in the warm sunshine, air perfumed by the lovely flowered fields.

Spotting an older woman striding across the enclosures, Abigail points her out to John. “Do you suppose that’s the lady of the house?”

John suddenly is very intent on his food. “That’s Mrs. Geddes, yes.”

“Why you acting so strange?”

“She may have, uh –” John clears his throat, casting a quick glance at Jack, “propositioned me.”

Abigail can’t help herself, throwing her head back in laughter; John’s red, Jack’s redder. Abigail can’t say she blames the woman, but John’s embarrassment is too rich. Like he don’t know what Abigail did before they married.

“I’m sure you were being your usual dashing self,” Abigail giggles.

Exasperated, “Abigail, I was elbow deep in a horse.”

Abigail raises her eyebrows, “Almost as nice as behind Pearson’s wagon.”

John rolls his eyes, but kisses her anyway.

Jack jumps up to excuse himself. “I’m gonna go see to my pony,” his voice cracks, dashing around the side of his house.

Abigail shakes her head, “The boy’s acting like the stork brought him. We sure all his book learning’s helping?”

They’ve caused enough of a scene, Mrs. Geddes looks their direction.

“Should I go introduce myself to the competition?” Abigail teases, starting to stand.

John wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her back down. “Ain’t much of a fair competition, when you’d beat her handily.”

But as Abigail feared, the sunshine clouds over. John comes home covered in other men’s blood. Mr. Geddes may have implored John to do his dirty work, don’t mean it has to sit right with Abigail. Even honest work threatens their foothold.

When Jack comes home from Strawberry crying, Abigail is at her wit’s end. Lying back to back with John in bed, Abigail considers what she must do. John’s trying but his last trouble nearly got Jack killed. Surely he’s got to appreciate what that means for their son.

It’s a hard call, but Abigail has to make it.

“I was wondering if you could help,” Abigail says to the shopkeeper’s sister. “I know you’ve had your husband troubles.”

“What’s that to you?” the woman eyes Abigail suspiciously.

“I’m not here to gossip, I’m – trying to leave my husband,” Abigail offers a piece of paper and pen she stole from the surgeon’s office.

She dictates as best she can, twisting her apron in her hands. God only knows if she’s said the right thing, but she’s said what’s in her heart. John must understand. He’s not a bad father but Abigail’s trying to be a better mother.

Abigail signs her name in her own hand, resolved. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if she didn’t love him so much.

John doesn’t notice Abigail’s hands shaking as she clears the breakfast dishes. Once she’s assured John is far enough from the house, she seizes Jack’s arm.

“Pack your things, you and I are leaving.”

“What momma?”

“You heard me, Jack. This is for your own good.”

Jack moves swiftly, but keeps craning his head around, looking for John as Abigail walks as fast as she can to the road. She left John a note; that was more than he ever left her.

\----------

Days are long and monotonous in a way John couldn’t have conceived. Working for other men was always tedium; time at Geddes’ without his family is even worse.

At least his own place gives him purpose. Nights are still too quiet, even with Uncle’s snoring.

Something about being back in this part of the country made John finally dare to crack Arthur’s journal, reading over certain pages again and again while Abigail and Jack sleep back when they were still here.

There’s no one to hide his reading habits from in the big house that smells of fresh-cut pine. The journal practically falls open to the pages where John’s interleafed Jack’s drawing for Arthur and Abigail’s letter to him.

John folds his whole heart into his letter to Abigail. If she must seek assistance reading it, John hopes she elects Jack; this is no one’s business but family’s. It’s out of John’s hands now. All he can do is wait on Abigail.

Charles is out on the porch with his pipe; John joins him with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey.

“You said you went back and buried Arthur.”

“I did.”

“I was considering visiting him. Care to join me?”

Charles lets John’s question hang for a long while. “Maybe one day. I think you’d rather see him by yourself for now. I’ll mind the place and Uncle.”

They finish the bottle together.

Except when John sets out, he doesn’t make for the point on the map Charles marked for him.

At first, he only means to stop over in Valentine on the road north, but catching up with Mary-Beth at the depot sets John towards all their old haunts from that fateful year.

It ain’t fair Pearson’s got the only picture of Abigail and Jack, but it’s John’s own damn fault. Tilly’s made out better than any of them, dressed in silk and glowing. They all earned their peace.

John’s only at the Annesburg depot to check for word from Charles or Sadie. It’s too much to hope Abigail’s written, when he stumbles into Rains Fall.

Arthur’d know better what to say to the old man, lost and scattered, more with his dead son than on the train platform. The thought of Jack cold and buried turns John’s stomach. It’s a pain he don’t want to have to ever face.

There’s no one left to see, planned or unplanned. The ascent to the grave is quiet, only disturbed by a stag in the thicket. John camps a little ways from his final destination, not far from where he and Arthur parted for the last time. He doubts he’s ready to face Arthur, but he’s here already.

Charles weren’t wrong, it’s a nice spot first thing in the morning. John’s got nothing to do but sit and stare at the grave.

He clears his throat. “Sorry it took so damn long for me to get here. I ain’t got no excuse other than I was chickenshit. I’m sure you’d agree.”

There’s a faint breeze on the mountaintop. John lets out a long exhale.

“I’m aiming to ask Abigail to marry me, if she’ll have me. I ain’t exactly asking your permission, but I know what you were ready to do. It weren’t your responsibility, but you were ready because you always were a better man than me.”

He hopes Arthur approves of his choice of ring. After all, Arthur thought it a good enough one decades ago.

John sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You didn’t have enough time or maybe too fucking much, I can’t figure.” He laughs in spite of himself. “You’re gonna rat me out to Grimshaw, I’m sure. Hosea did always say I liked the taste of soap too much.”

There’s a tight squeeze in John’s chest. He can’t say it out loud, he can only hope Arthur gives everyone his regards.

One day, John’ll bring his family here too.

John stays ‘til nightfall, then mounts Rachel. God willing, Abigail and Jack wait for him back home.

\----------

The widow Milton and her grandiosely-named son keep their own company.

Abigail learned the hard way she couldn’t be friendly with hotel guests in the dining room when a man corners her as she clears away dishes.

“The Hell do you think you’re doing?” she snaps, fingers wrapped around a steak knife.

“Mrs. Milton, clearly the late Mr. Milton isn’t overly mourned, for you are neither dressed in black nor do you still have your ring.”

“Sir, whatever my husband was, I ain’t that kind of woman.” _Not any more at least._

Walking out on John is its own kind of agony. The longer she and Jack are gone, the more it hurts. Abigail cannot fathom what it will take to make it a year.

Abigail husks corn out back when Jack comes running up to her, dog fast behind him. The boy’s got his heart stuck on the town stray and Abigail ain’t one to discourage it; he don’t have friends his age. At least she had the other whores then the girls in the gang.

“Lancelot, slow down or you’ll give yourself a fit,” Abigail tries to get Jack to take deep breaths. “Whatever it is can’t be worth getting so worked up over.”

Jack presses a crumpled letter into her hand. “It’s from pa.”

Abigail blinks at the letter, ‘Abigail Roberts’ and ‘John Marston’ there plain as day in John’s script. Her heart pounds and she feels faint.

“Don’t go far from me, Jack,” she whispers.

“I won’t, momma.”

Abigail points to words she don’t recognize, which mostly turns into Jack reading the letter aloud, pausing so she can wipe tears forming at the corner of her eyes.

_John’s done it._ He’s finally made them a place like he spoke of when they were little more than kids who couldn’t conceive of anything to their names.

“What do you think, Jack?” she asks, running her fingers through his hair.

Jack frowns, deep in thought. “It isn’t gonna last.”

There’s been very little in Jack’s short life to prove otherwise. Hell, there ain’t been much in Abigail’s longer one either. Not much – except John, even when he fell short. Maybe one day Jack’ll see that.

“I think we’ll be okay this time. And I’d very much like to go home. Doesn’t that sound fine, having a proper home?”

Jack nods, though he doesn’t quite meet Abigail’s eye. “Think there’s space for Rufus at the ranch?”

“Course there is. Every farm needs a guard dog.”

Jack smiles at that at least.

Abigail tries to not appear too eager to pack for the next stage to Blackwater.

“Know of any wagons making runs past Beecher’s Hope?” Abigail asks the station master.

“Not today, ma’am. If you and your boy don’t mind it, it’s a bit of a walk.”

“Oh we don’t mind. Heard it’s pretty land up there.”

“It wasn’t much to look at, but it’s had some decent improvements the last few weeks.”

Abigail once heard something about absence making the heart fonder. If it weren’t the case the first times, it surely is now. Abigail thinks John looks well, better than he ought for months living as a bachelor. She must look a fright after their long journey.

She can’t help but cast sidelong glances at him as he gives her and Jack the grand tour of the ranch. She doesn’t mistake John’s looks either, so she must not look as terrible as all that.

Jack runs off with the fresh eggs to show Charles. If John is hesitating, Abigail ain’t, dragging him to the far side of the barn.

“Really Abigail?” John says with some amusement as she undoes his trousers. “Thought you’d want something a little nicer.”

“ _This_ is plenty nice,” she gestures to the farm.

John grins and pushes her skirts up.

\----------

Relief ain’t the word for what John feels watching Micah’s blood spill on the blinding white snow.

Any burden on his soul he hoped to lessen is doubled watching Dutch walk away without another word. Maybe the man still has the faintest shred of paternal affection in him.

“Do I hate him for that?” John asks Abigail in the privacy of their room.

“Will hating Dutch get you anywhere?” Course she knows the answer already.

“No,” John sighs. Dutch has gotta be as good as buried to him now.

Abigail is wan, scrubbing the floors clean. “Blood all over my house,” she mutters to herself. It ain’t about the furniture, but if it keeps her from fretting about Sadie and Charles, John’ll take it.

“Was it worth it?” John asks as he gets Sadie a fresh bandage.

Sadie snorts, “You know it was, even if I had to carry yours and Charles’ corpses on my conscience.”

“I’m glad you don’t.”

When Jack turns in, only John and Abigail remain in the sitting room. John watches her hunch over to get more light, making tiny, fast stitches on her wedding dress.

“Not that I ain’t as eager as you to make this proper, but don’t wear yourself out.”

Abigail looks up, needle between her teeth. “I gotta get this finished while I can still fit into it.”

John snorts, “I love you, Abigail, but your cooking is not that appetizing.”

Abigail smiles weakly at his joke. “It’s a bit early to tell, but John… I think I might be pregnant.”

John’s not sure he’s heard her properly. He crosses the room to kneel at her feet, taking the half-finished sewing from her hands. “Truly?”

Her forehead wrinkles. “It’s been so long since Jack and I figured maybe I just couldn’t have any more, but the past few days felt the same, best I can remember.”

John’s heart hammers in his chest. He thought it was as full as it could be when he slipped the ring on Abigail’s finger, but apparently not.

It’s been a long road, but John find he likes being a father. Jack couldn’t stop grinning when John took him into town to be fitted for his first boots. John’s happiest listening to Jack recount his farm work at the table to Abigail.

Another kid. John can do this. They can do this.

“I do seem intent on giving you bastards, huh?” Even teasing, John’s voice is thick with emotion.

“Our children ain’t –”

John cuts Abigail off with a kiss. When they break apart, John’s content to listen to Abigail’s level breathing.

“I want to keep this just for us, least ‘til after the wedding.”

“Whatever you want,” John promises her.

Uncle calls John useless at farm chores, too easily distracted by assisting Abigail in her own work. The old coot ain’t wrong.

“Someone’s gonna know something’s up,” Abigail hisses as John drops the milk buckets in the summer kitchen.

John’s only response is to kiss the back of her sweaty neck.

John catches Jack trying to hop the fence to help Charles with the sheep when he notices the chickens still untended.

“I thought your mother was getting the eggs out of the coop this morning.”

“She was but she said she wasn’t feeling well.”

John rushes back in, Abigail lying in bed with the curtains drawn.

“If I knew you were going to turn into such a mother hen, I wouldn’t have told you a damn thing,” Abigail despairs.

“How about I read some to you?” John offers, pulling off his boots. He’ll deal with the mud he tracked in later.

Abigail hums in contentment, John grabs the first book on top of his nightstand.

He’s barely got a few paragraphs in when Abigail frowns. “What on Earth is this?”

“ _Farmers’ Almanac_.”

“You read this for fun?”

“I thought you wanted this ranch to be a success. Besides, I don’t read it for fun. It usually puts me to sleep within five minutes.”

“Well it’s making my headache worse.”

John has to rummage for Mary-Beth’s book. “I got it on good authority you’ll like this one better.”

It’s somewhat ridiculous, but John supposes he couldn’t write anything better. When Abigail dozes off, she’s smiling.

\----------

“Been thinking about a name for the baby,” John says quietly between cigarette puffs as they watch the night sky from the porch.

Abigail warms from her fingers to her toes. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m rather stuck on Arthur.”

He’s always there, a specter in corners unseen. There’s a lump in Abigail’s throat.

“That’s the only name I’d consider too,” she murmurs in agreement.

John is short with everyone he encounters, at times Abigail included, though she knows he don’t mean anything by it. But with Jack, John has all the patience in the world, dissimilar as their temperaments are.

It don’t make up for their lost time, but John’s the only man Abigail wants as father for her children.

She watches John talk Jack through breaking his new pony more closely than she’s putting finishing touches on her wedding dress. Sadie’s far more diligent at her sewing than Abigail.

“I’m impressed, and I don’t say that lightly,” Sadie says. “Didn’t know Marston had it in him.”

“Arthur did.”

Sadie raises an eyebrow, “I won’t speak ill of the dead, but give yourself credit Abigail.”

“I do. Don’t you worry.”

Jack helps Abigail practice writing ‘Marston’, her wedding day surprise for John since she’s already told him her bigger secret.

She is flush with pride at the look on John’s face when she signs the church registry with her new name. Though she’s been living at Beecher’s Hope for months now, John finally does right by Abigail and carries her over the threshold to the hooting and hollering of their witnesses.

“Mrs. Marston, you are taking entirely too long getting out of that dress,” John says lazily watching her in the firelight from their bed.

A shiver of pleasure runs down Abigail’s spine at her new name. She’ll never tire of hearing it.

“I spent far too long on making this, Mr. Marston and I’d like to pack it away nicely in case a daughter wants it for herself.”

John’s far more interested in Abigail’s new combination, made from such fine linen it don’t leave much to the imagination.

“Don’t rip it,” she says crossly, climbing into bed with him.

“I’ll buy you a new one, Mrs. Marston.”

John takes care with it, however, and Abigail can’t be bothered when he flings it to the floor, as she tops him. Her wedding ring is the only thing left on between the pair of them. Abigail thinks it looks quite fetching on her finger, hand splayed across John’s chest.

The house is impossibly still when all is said and done. Far off in the distance, there’s a howl, followed by noises of discontent from the barn, but the livestock is safe and secure. Rufus growls in response then goes quiet; Jack must have hushed him.

“You think it’s a girl?” John murmurs, fingers skimming Abigail’s mostly flat stomach.

“Just as likely as a boy. You want girl?”

“I guess I figured I was better suited for a boy. You’d do fine with a little girl taking after you.”

“Model woman that I am,” Abigail chuckles.

At first Abigail toys with the name Elizabeth for the great expanse of land that greets them out the door, but that’s too much for a baby.

“What about Abigail?” John suggests, leaning over the barnyard fence.

Clever though he may be, Abigail don’t give him credit for creativity. “Mothers don’t get Juniors, fathers do.”

“Didn’t take you for backwards and antiquated,” John teases.

“And I didn’t take you for a champion of women’s suffrage,” Abigail grins back.

“Trust you at the ballot more than the other fools.”

Uncle’s whistling again on the porch; Abigail’s got the tune stuck in her head all day.

“How about Susanna?”

“That’s awful pretty,” John concurs. “When do we tell Jack?”

Abigail can’t stop grinning, neither can John. “You’re to have a baby brother or sister early next year. How does that sound?”

Slowly, Jack breaks into a small but warm smile.

The house starts to leave a whole lot emptier when first Charles, then Sadie, move on. Abigail doesn’t much care for it, but it won’t be that way for long.

\----------

There’s a car down the end of the road. John’s seen a few in Blackwater, but never here at his house.

“We don’t know anyone drives a car,” Jack ponders out loud, wiping his brow.

“No, we don’t,” John mutters, wishing his rifle weren’t all the way back in the house. “Go check on Uncle, make sure he don’t do anything stupid,” John nudges Jack. “I’ll go find your ma.”

Coming in from the field, John doesn’t take his eyes off the vehicle as a small figure dressed in black steps out, taking the long walk up the drive.

“What’s the fuss about?” Abigail squints against the sun stepping out the front door. Still a month ‘til the baby’s due, Abigail is unwieldy – there’s no other word for it. John worries but keeps it to himself.

“I don’t rightly know,” John says, finally gets a good look at the woman approaching. “Mary Gillis, I’ll be Goddamned.”

She might be thinner than when John saw her last and certainly greyer, but John finds grey when he shaves with alarming regularity these days. Such is time.

“It’s been Mary Linton quite a while, John Marston. You aren’t a skinny little boy anymore either, though you’ve still got a tongue.”

Mary’s gaze drifts over to Abigail. If Mary takes notice of her ring on Abigail’s finger she says nothing. Mary fiddles with a handkerchief. “I read in the papers about so many of your gang, and well, I just wanted to be certain –”

Bluntly, “Arthur’s been dead nigh on ten years, Mrs. Linton.”

“Oh,” she deflates as he confirms her bad news.

John looks her up and down in her widow’s weeds he’s sure she don’t sport for her even deader husband, his mouth fills with bile. _Now_ she wants to claim Arthur?

“You must have had a long journey, Mrs. Linton. Why don’t you come in for a hot meal?” Abigail offers more freely of their home than John would.

He hangs back while the two women go inside, arms crossed, leaving Abigail to her morbid curiosity. That woman gets a meal then gets out of his house. From the corner of his eye John spots Jack and Uncle peering round the corner of the porch.

“So that’s her, huh? Ain’t seeing what got Morgan so bent out of shape,” Uncle says.

“Like you got such discerning taste,” John retorts.

“Found your wife, didn’t I?”

If Jack wasn’t there, John’d kick Uncle in the ass.

“Your Uncle Arthur almost married that woman and if he had, you’d have never known him.”

Jack frowns at John, “Would it have made him happy?”

_No._ John does not say as much aloud.

The table is prolonged silence, utensils scraping on plates. Even Abigail can’t save it from its awkwardness.

“Do you happen to know where Arthur’s interred?” Mary asks.

“Yep,” John mumbles between forkfuls. Abigail forgot the salt again, making it a hard swallow.

“I’d be obliged if you could point me in its direction.”

_Shit._ John hates it, but he’s got an obligation, if only for Arthur’s sake. Ridiculous, being beheld to a dead man. “It’s not an easy road, Mrs. Linton. It’s better if I take you.”

She at least has the decency to look appreciative. Mary Gillis is not who John figured he’d see Arthur with next.

“Take Jack with you,” Abigail insists.

“I’d feel better if Jack were here with you, case there’s need for a fast ride to the doctor. No offense, Uncle,” John cuts off the old man before he can protest.

John’s resolved the next time he goes to Arthur’s grave, he goes with all of them, or he’s not going at all. Maybe with the baby, he’ll get better at talking about Arthur.

They set out early the next morning. Mary balks at being presented with a horse and no sidesaddle.

“Ain’t no trains go that high in the mountains,” John says coolly.

“Try and be a little kinder, John,” Abigail whispers to him as he gives her a peck goodbye. John only scowls.

Neither is much of a conversationalist; John prefers it that way.

Late into their first day, Mary speaks up. “Mrs. Marston seems lovely.”

“Hmm.”

“How did you two meet?”

“She were a gang kid, same as me. Started as a whore, and I mean professionally, not as a disparagement,” John notes at Mary’s scandalized face. “Abigail deserves every fine thing I can afford.”

They don’t speak any more on the subject. If Mary is affronted at sleeping in a tent rather than a hotel room, she does a decent job hiding it. John sleeps in the open air, puffing his cigarette to a butt and wishing he were home.

The journey is marked by awkward stretches of silence, except for John pointing out landmarks and directions.

Mary speaks up again, “I seem to have offended you in some great way, John Marston.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” John scoffs.

“Whatever passed between myself and Arthur was our business, you’ve no cause to judge.”

John feels a white-hot searing pain in his skull. “And who watched him fall apart closer than anyone? _Me._ Who saw him sabotage any other chance at happiness and peace of mind ‘cause he couldn’t shake you? _Me._ ”

Mary’s not a tall woman, but John watches her puff up on top of the horse. “Do not solely lay blame at my feet, Mr. Marston. I heard a great deal about your Mr. Van der Linde and the number he did on a great many souls in the name of loyalty. You were fortunate your wife knew the life –”

John swears if she says one word against Abigail he’ll strand her on the side of the mountain without a second thought.

“But Arthur and I had obligations we could not walk away from. You’ve never had to face that, clearly. It doesn’t mean I loved him less.”

Mary must have no idea how close to the bone she’s cut.

“Don’t suppose I do know about obligations.” John leaves it at that.

John gives Mary space to walk up to the marker alone. She dabs her eyes like a proper lady, looks as though she wants to speak, but says nothing, awkwardly fidgeting with her skirts.

He gives her a hand down the sheer rock face when she’s done her piece. “Thank you, John. That meant a great deal to me.”

“You’re welcome, Mary.”

John sees Mary off to her destination at the Emerald Station. He doesn’t wait for the train to pull out, all too ready to be home.

Abigail’s feeding the chickens when John rides up to the barn with the horses. John opens his arms wide to Abigail, buries his face into the crook of her shoulder, and breathes in deep.

\----------

The baby’s late by Abigail’s estimates.

“I ought to charge him room and board,” Abigail sighs, pacing their room at night, wearing holes in the carpet.

“Not a bad idea,” John chuckles, eyes still closed. “Arthur’s overstayed his welcome.”

Abigail quietly excuses herself from breakfast when the pain starts.

Other mothers have spoken about the great comfort of having their husbands at their side. The notion scares Abigail. There ain’t any part of her that’s a secret to John, but a part of her don’t want him to see her so vulnerable neither. Her last midwives are long dead and buried.

John finds her white-knuckle gripping the bedpost. “Jesus, Abigail were you planning on saying something?”

“I thought it’d pass,” as she tries not to double over.

“I’m sending Jack out for the doctor.”

John starts to step out, but Abigail catches him, “He can’t –”

Firmly, “He can, Abigail, I trust him.” Then with a grin, “Ridiculous as it sounds, I think Uncle’s lumbago flare-up is genuine today.”

Abigail’s laugh turns into a strangled yell.

John sees Jack off, then does not leave her side. Abigail is faintly aware of the sky darkening, of rain hitting the glass panes. She thinks about Tilly, wishing she could have helped her with her two girls.

Abigail bears down hard when the doctor finally shows, John bracing her back. She was ridiculous for thinking she wanted him gone.

Abigail falls back against him when their daughter is placed in her arms, squalling something fierce.

“Don’t be shy,” John beckons a pale Jack, hovering by the doorframe.

Jack is tentative and careful as John passes him and Susanna, a huge grin on John’s face.

“Being a big brother suits, I reckon,” Abigail beams through her sweat and tears.

“I like it,” Jack concurs, not taking his eyes off his sister.

“Susanna’s a fine name,” Uncle puffs up.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit old man,” John rolls his eyes. “Your involvement was the least necessary.”

It’s still raining when the doctor leaves; John steps out to pay him, leaving Abigail feeding a quickly dozing baby. As she pushes Susanna’s wispy locks back, Abigail cannot mistake one thing.

While traces of John’s features have since appeared in Jack’s face, their son’s look on birth was Abigail. Susanna is all Marston.

“She looks an awful lot like you,” Abigail says when John clambers into bed back at her side.

“Hopefully she’ll grow out of it. My nose is unfortunate enough on me; I can’t imagine it on a young lady.”

Abigail shoves John best she can without disturbing the baby. “I happen to be very fond of how you look. Now so long as we can discourage her from seeking out the company of wolves…”

She may have had a teasing tone, but John’s is deadly serious in its quiet. “I ain’t letting anything, _anyone_ touch her, Abigail.”

“I know you won’t.”

John lifts Susanna out of Abigail’s arms, kissing her sweat-dried forehead. “You get your rest while you can.”

Though she aches all over, Abigail’s never fallen asleep easier.

\----------

Susanna is a doll the whole family pets and pampers.

Abigail keeps her so well-appointed, no one would ever think she lives on a ranch. Jack holds his sister in his lap to read to her. Though she’s far from reading herself, Susanna has a concentrating dribble on her chin. Uncle even omits the dirty lyrics from his songs for her.

John finds he is most content taking her to the barnyard, Susanna’s small hand reaching for all the animals, eyes bright.

“You like the cows, huh?”

Susanna squeals in response.

Guilt twists at John’s innards thinking about missing out on doing the same with Jack at this age. No point in dwelling on past miseries when Jack’s usually right there beside them.

The year’s crops are killed by an early frost. Thankfully the Blackwater money keeps them afloat, but John’s up late checking the household accounts over. He’s got to get Jack back on his arithmetic. The boy’s the most voracious reader, but his numbers need work if he’s ever taking over the farm.

John takes the children into town for a portrait as a present to Abigail. Susanna fidgets at the last moment, rendering her something of a ghostly blur in the photograph. Now John’s stuck with three copies of it.

“I see my children every day John, I don’t need a piece of cardboard to look at them,” Abigail shakes her head at her hopeless husband even as she grins.

“One day they won’t be this small and you’ll thank me,” John defends himself.

“Thank you.”

John tucks the remaining photos in letters to Charles and Sadie.

Charles response includes asking after everyone, if Jack’s made practice of his tracking, if Susanna’s teething yet. He is oblique in his own activities.

Sadie’s letter is mostly retellings of shootouts with desperados, a list who she’s killed. She ends on promising kisses to the children from their Aunt S.

“Sounds like Sadie’s got herself a little distraction with that other bounty hunter,” Abigail observes when they are curled up in bed.

“Glad that wasn’t just me wondering on that,” John chuckles.

Tilly invites the family for a visit; Abigail is beside herself with delight. John’s more than content to stay in their corner of the world but seeing Tilly’ll be nice.

“You could clean up a little better,” Abigail says, noting John hasn’t shaved as close as he could.

“It’ll just have grown back by the time we get to Saint Denis.”

Abigail gives a playful swat at John’s cheek; he catches her hand and kisses her fingertips.

They take the train from Riggs Station, Jack’s nose all but pressed against the window. John keeps craning his neck nervously at the other passengers. He feels naked without a gun at his side.

“No one’s robbing us today,” Abigail whispers, only audible to him as she shifts Susanna’s weight in her arms.

“Give her here,” John mumbles, annoyed to be found out in his paranoia. At least Susanna will prove some distraction. Being on the other side of it ain’t easy.

Disembarking the train, none of the Marstons can wrap their heads around the number of automobiles on the streets. There must be near as many as there are horse and carriages.

“Don’t think the Van der Linde gang coulda outpaced this,” John says to Abigail.

Tilly Jackson – _Pierre’s_ home is a scant few blocks from the mansion they coated the interiors of with blood. John keeps glancing at Jack to see any recognition in his son’s face. Mercifully, Jack don’t recall all the misery this city brought them.

Tilly is completely at ease with her servants. It’s jarring to see.

“And all we got for help is Uncle,” Abigail teasingly prods John’s side.

“How is he?” Tilly asks genuinely.

“Still here,” John rolls his eyes.

“A glowing review,” she laughs.

Abigail is naturally the better conversant in the family. John’s just happy to see her so pleased, to see Susanna playing on the thick-pile carpet with Florence and Irene. They pass on news of Charles and Sadie; Tilly brings out the newest postcards from Mary-Beth back east.

Nicolas Pierre approaches John with a cigar. John’s grateful for it in lieu of conversation. He has no idea what to say to the man, their histories worlds apart, aside from Tilly.

Jack’s spent most of the afternoon on the sofa looking torn between the women’s close conversation and the men’s stilted pleasantries.

“Your mother mentioned you want to be a lawyer,” Nicolas says to Jack.

John’s not imaging Jack looks ready to shrink into his Sunday suit. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s a worthy endeavor. If you’re up on your schooling, money can be less of an obstacle. I can send inquiries to some colleagues about it.”

Quietly, “Thank you, sir.”

John lets out a large exhale of smoke and doesn’t intervene. No point in putting the boy on the spot more than he already is.

John finds Jack on the porch after supper, swinging his legs over the edge like he ain’t fourteen but four.

“Just ‘cause your ma’s set on you being a lawyer doesn’t mean you have to,” John reassures Jack. “Hell, I got notions about you running Beecher’s Hope, don’t mean you gotta listen to me neither. So long as you see to Susanna after your ma and I are gone, that’s good enough.”

Jack nods to himself, then smiles at John. “Sure thing, pa. I can do that.”

\----------

Though it’s still years away, the notion of a Marston going to school, going to _college_ , sends a thrill down Abigail’s spine. She and John made do with so little. Jack is going to have the world.

“There’s colleges for women too,” Jack says one morning. “You wanna go to college, Susanna?”

“Okay Jack!” Susanna says, no idea what she’s agreeing to, petting old, patient Rufus.

Abigail Marston, who can barely read and only sign her own name could have a college-educated daughter. It makes her head spin.

John’s even more overwhelmed. He only airs his troubles to Abigail while they muck out stalls. “Two college kids? I’m hardly figuring how to send Jack, much less Susanna. Uncle’s doctor’s bills keep getting more costly and –”

Abigail shuts him up with a kiss. “We’ll manage. Susanna’s years off and who knows, maybe she’ll find the notion of being a bluestocking unbearable.”

John grins, “You got no right being this clever or pretty shoveling shit.”

“It’s my specialty.”

John bites the bullet and buys a wild team of horses. “Once they’re broken and sold, no matter what happens to the ranch, that’s money for Jack,” he says to Abigail. To the children, “Don’t get near them unless you’re with me. And even then, you really shouldn’t.”

Jack nods solemnly. Susanna copies her brother’s demeanor before covering a giggle. Even at that age, Jack weren’t so easy and happy. Abigail marvels at what a difference the years have brought to their family.

Sweeping the porch, Abigail stumbles on the finest scene she never could have conceived on as a little girl. John leans back in a rocker, boots propped up on the porch rail with Susanna in his lap, a book spread open. Jack leans forward in the rocker next to them, reading his own book.

The children each their own reflection of John: Jack in his wrinkled brow, Susanna in the set of her jaw. They are Abigail: Jack’s eyes, Susanna’s fists balled at her sides.

Abigail don’t dare breathe, lest it all be a dream. There are too many people she wishes could be here to see it with her but she knows they do. _Oh, Arthur._

“Ain’t they a picture?” Uncle says at Abigail’s side.

“They surely are,” Abigail smiles.

“And to think, me responsible!” he chuckles. Even if the man’s only intent was to find another poor girl to lighten the load, none of it would have been possible.

“Sure Uncle,” Abigail snorts. “You did alright.”

Susanna sleeps soundly in her trundle bed. Abigail traces the old, faded scars on John’s face with her fingertips.

“I do believe you’re a handsomer man than when we first met.”

John raises an eyebrow, “Abigail Marston, you’re quite a liar.”

She ain’t fibbing though. This life suits. Fatherhood suits. Whatever she saw in him when he first flirted with her has grown richer.

Abigail kisses John on the bit of exposed collarbone. “Handsomer to me at least.”

“Suppose that’s all I really need to be, so long as you’re satisfied.”

“These many years, John Marston.”

John dims the lamp and takes Abigail into his arms.

\----------

Morning chores taken care of, John comes in for a second cup of coffee. His eyes closed, he only faintly listens to Abigail and Jack.

“You seen Susanna?”

“No, momma.”

Abigail’s footfalls move in the direction of the bedroom, then back. “She ain’t in there, John.”

John finally opens his eyes, squinting against the morning light. “She’s likely with the dog.” But Abigail’s mouth is set in worry, so John pushes back from the table. “I’ll go look.”

Rufus dozes on his old blanket, Susanna nowhere to be found. John’s heart pounds a bit faster.

_Jack’s missing, nowhere to be found._

There’s shouts of her name in four directions; John heads towards the barn.

One of the team horses meant to sell is out in the yard –not his stall where John left the animal or thought he left them. There’s a small figure in the same color Abigail dressed Susanna this morning and a pool of blood.

_No no no no._

John runs to kneel at Susanna’s body fast as he’s able. He should call for help but his throat’s stuck and he knows deep down it’s too late. His daughter is dead.

“Is that –”

Hoarsely, “Abigail, don’t –”

If John’s blood weren’t already running cold, Abigail’s scream of agony followed by a thud would do it.

Beyond the enclosure, Jack’s running towards them, Uncle huffing and puffing even further behind.

John stands as though he can somehow shield Jack from this too, but he’s got to ask the impossible of his son. Jack’s not strong enough to carry Abigail, but someone’s gotta get Susanna before it gets worse.

Unable to keep his voice steady, “Jack I need you to get your sister out of here. Just get her to Uncle, you understand?”

Jack’s white as a sheet and unmoving as John scoops Abigail up out of the dirt.

“Boy, do you understand?” John snaps.

Jack startles, his mouth moving in what John assumes to be ‘yes sir’.

John gets Abigail to their bed fast as he can without a moment to spare on her condition before turning on his heel and running back outside. Susanna’s blood is all down Jack’s front, all down Uncle’s.

“Give her to me,” John croaks to Uncle. As gently as he can muster, “Go see to your momma, Jack. She needs you.”

However little she weighed the day she was born, Susanna seems weightless now.

John’s feet are lead. He’s seen men blown apart, bodies mangled, watched Arthur spit out his own lungs; Susanna’s broken body is the most agonizing thing John’s ever seen.

If he’d secured the horse better, if he’d seen Susanna slip out…

A hand claps on his shoulder. “Let’s see about some clean sheets to wrap her in,” Uncle murmurs.

John don’t leave Susanna’s side for hours. Jack eventually emerges from his parents’ room, tear streaks down his cheeks.

“How’s she doing?”

“Dunno. She won’t talk to me,” Jack sniffs.

“How’re you doing?”

John never gets Jack’s response. Pistol in hand, Abigail storms out of the room, out of the house. John has to scramble to chase after her across the ranch, dusk quickly falling.

“Where you going with that gun, Abigail?”

“Doing what’s gotta be done.”

John recognizes her look, like back at Clemens Point years ago. “We need that horse, Jack’s money –”

“Don’t you _dare_ put this on him!” Abigail sobs.

“I ain’t! Never!”

“You fucked up _again_ , and it killed our baby!”

Abigail’s aim is true, a near-fatal blow to the heart. All the blame John lays at his own feet, Abigail multiplies times over.

Even winded, the kid John was, that scraped by on the street fights back. “ _You_ put these notions in Jack’s head, when we could have been just fine as we were! I was doing what _you_ wanted!”

Abigail looks ready to lunge, ready to shoot John if it came down to it. John plants his feet, ready to accept his fate.

Abigail drops the pistol in the dirt and runs back to the house instead.

John sleeps on the sofa, though he hardly rests. Letters to Tilly, Sadie, and Charles are all started then fed to the fire. _How does one say their child’s dead on paper or out loud?_

_Arthur didn’t know either._

Arrangements are made with the minister who married them. Susanna’s buried on a warm afternoon on a hilltop overlooking Beecher’s Hope.

John’s seen too many buried. He’ll die first before he’ll see Jack or Abigail six feet under, he swears to an uncaring God.

Abigail clings to Jack through the service; John’s surprised when her nails bite into his arm. She just needs something to lean on. It ain’t about him.

A faint scent of cigarette smoke wafts in through the lace curtains. John steps out expecting to see Abigail, but finds Jack instead. A perverse part of John wants to congratulate Jack on a good lift.

“Don’t tell momma.”

Lighting his own cigarette, John joins his son. “I didn’t see a thing.”

They smoke together for a while before John croaks, “Your sister thought the world of you, Jack. Don’t you forget that.”

A younger Jack might have cried against John’s shirt. Instead he wipes his tears on his shirt sleeve.

Feeding the horses one day, John’s knees hit the barn floor hard enough to bruise, though the pain ain’t much. The grief hits John with all the fury of a prairie storm in violent, ugly sobs.

Susanna was the one thing in his life he didn’t ruin in some way, but John killed her all the same.

He wonders if she saw it coming; if she was scared. Christ he hopes she wasn’t, brave little kid she is. _Was._

He doesn’t hear the barn door creak open, has no awareness of someone approaching him until Abigail’s hands slip in his.

“It were an accident, John, ain’t no way we could have stopped it. I shouldn’t have said all those horrible things.”

Abigail’s apology hurts worse than the accusations flung in anger. He’s been far crueler, on purpose, in his time. John cannot meet her eye, he cannot bear it.

The ring on Abigail’s finger catches the light. John finally musters his voice, “I keep thinking about Arthur.”

Abigail’s other hand tilts John’s chin up. With a watery smile, “I like to imagine he’s minding our Susanna now.”

Once again, Arthur picks up where John’s failed. _Take care of her, please._

John inhales shakily, “Has that been a comfort to you the past few days?”

“It has, but it ain’t the only thing. We got Jack. I got you. Right, John?”

It’s all he needs to hear.

“You got me, Abigail.” John frowns, mulling over his words. “We’ve gotten rather good at beginning again.”

Abigail nods in agreement, tears falling freely. It’s a promise.

They sit a long while ‘til they’re ready to face the world together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest fic I've ever written and I can't believe I wrote it in like a month.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Them in all their prickly glory.


End file.
